


Darkness Is A Harsh Term, Don't You Think?

by SaunterVaguely



Series: Birdhouse In Your Soul [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Brief Transphobic Language, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cuddly Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Strap-Ons, Torture, Trans Crowley, Trans Male Character, slightly dark Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gives Crowley the Winchester equivalent of the shovel talk. Darker than it sounds, but with a fluffy happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Surprises

"C'mon, man, help us out," the hunter on the other end of the phone pleads, his thick New York accent sounding tinny over the bad connection.

Dean shakes his head, though of course no one sees it. "I told you, Jeff, I'm not available for rent-a-torturer."

"Why not? You're in the neighborhood anyway, right? I heard you just took down a witch in Evansville; that's barely two hours from here." There's the sound of a heavy door opening over the phone, and Jeff continues, "We have no idea what this thing is. Holy water works but salt doesn't, demon trap works but not exorcism- we dunno what to make of it." In the background there's a low thud and a pained grunt.

Dean groans. Of course there's some new breed of monster that doesn't follow the rules. "Alright." He spins the wheel, turns around and heads toward Jeff's hideout. "I'll be there soon; try not to get eaten."

He hangs up before Jeff can reply, then dials Sam's number.

"Hey," he says when his brother answers. "I'm gonna be a little longer than I thought."

"Problems?"

"Maybe." Dean squints against the glare of a passing car's headlights. "Jeff called. He's got some kinda new monster he wants my help with."

"Oh, great," Sam says sarcastically. "What are you gonna call this one? The Blue Oyster Cult?"

"Gonna try and figure out how to kill it first."

"Okay." There's a beat, and then Sam asks, haltingly, "Have you heard anything from Cr-"

"Nope." Dean cuts him off because he already knows what Sam's going to ask: Crowley's been gone for nearly two weeks without a word, and the younger Winchester is getting sincerely worried. The fact that he's the only one doing so doesn't deter him. "Look, he took off with no note, no phone call, I'm pretty sure we can say he doesn't want to be found." Dean knows he's not going to dissuade his brother; there's some kind of weirdly intense bond going on there. He once teased Sam that Crowley imprinted on him like a demonic duckling, but Sam just stared meaningfully at Cas, who stared meaningfully at Dean.

"He wouldn't just leave without telling me. Not for this long," Sam insists.

Dean sighs but doesn't argue. "Put Cas on?"

The phone buzzes briefly, static sounds as Sam carries it through the bunker. A moment later he hears the familiar gravelly tones of the angel. "Hello, Dean."

"Hey, buddy." He holds the phone between his cheek and shoulder, using both hands to turn a corner. "How're things in the mancave of letters?"

"Um. Quiet," Cas offers, sounding uncertain.

"Really? That's surprising-"

"Aside from Sam's repeated calls to Crowley's phone, and his complaints that Crowley will not answer his texts, and his voicing of concerns for-"

"Yeah, okay, that's about what I figured," Dean sighs again. "Okay. I'll get back as soon as I can. Sorry he's driving you crazy with his pansy-ass moping."

"He is not affecting my mental health; he simply misses Crowley's companionship."

Dean winces. "Do me a favor, Cas." "Anything, Dean." "Never use that word in that tone with in the same sentence as Crowley's or my brother's name again. Okay?"

"Okay."

~

He pulls up to Jeff's location in Terre Haute a few hours later, rolling his eyes at the big, foreboding-looking plantation style house. He slings a bag of various tools of the trade over one shoulder, locks the Impala and clumps his way up the steps. The door opens before he even knocks, and a tall, skinny guy with a scraggly beard and camo jacket peers out at him. "Winchester?"

"Yep. Where's Jeff?"

"Basement," the guy grunts, stepping back. Dean walks into the building slowly, jumping a little when the back of his neck is suddenly soaked with holy water.

"Hey!"

The guys shrugs. "Just a precaution."

Dean follows the guy (somewhat warily as always) down the dark twisting steps into the basement, dimly-lit concrete walls lined with badly-scrawled symbols and suspiciously dark smears of something. Jeff and two other hunters are sort of loitering around the center of the room, standing over the hunched, kneeling figure- presumably their so-called new monster.

Jeff looks up and waves a little, grinning. "Hey, you made good time."

Dean nods as he reaches the last step, shifting the bag on his shoulder. "You getting anywhere with whatever-it-is?"

"Nah, just a lot of eyerolling and backtalk." Jeff steps aside to let Dean get a look at the bloodied, chained creature, who-

 

-is Crowley.

The no-longer-quite-a-demon squints up at him with the one eye that isn't completely swollen shut (or possibly gouged out? Hard to tell at this angle), blinking blood from his eyelashes. Of course, Dean thinks, of course it had to be him. Perfect. Great. "You son of a bitch," he sighs.


	2. Seems That All My Bridges Have Been Burnt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for gore and torture in this chapter.

"Of course, I'm chained up in a basement, should've known it wouldn't take long for one of you Winchesters to show up," Crowley rasps, teeth stained red.

Jeff and his pals tense up, eyes darting back and forth. "You know what this thing is?"

"It's Crowley," Dean grits out.

"Crowley like- king of hell, Crowley?" The woman on Dean's right asks, disbelief coloring her tone.

"The one and only," Crowley pipes up. "I was beginning to think you'd never guess. I know, I know, I'm not what you pictured. I'm more for the modern look than the whole horns and tail image. More sex-appeal."

"Last I heard, the king of hell dropped off the map," the woman says suspiciously. "Now suddenly you show up and you can't be hurt by salt but you're weak enough to be caught unaware? Where've you been, exactly?"

Crowley shrugs with some difficulty. "Took a gap year, you know, backpacked through the outer rings of the inferno, really got in touch with myself." He grins, missing a few teeth.

"Or someone's been hiding him," the third hunter says, crossing his arms.

Dean's gut clenches up. If Crowley tells them he's been holed up in the Winchesters' bunker, it's not gonna go over too well.

"Where've you been?" The woman demands again, stepping forward and drawing a knife from her belt.

"I've been away for my health," Crowley lies.

She huffs a frustrated breath, nostrils flaring, and drops down to drive her knife into the former king's thigh. He and Dean jerk at the same time, and Crowley lets out a grunt, a choked laugh.

"You- you hunters are all the same; no imagination. You wouldn't know subtlety if it shot you in the face."

"You want subtlety?" She snarls. "How 'bout I take this knife, chop off your dick and shove it up your ass? That subtle enough for you?"

Crowley barks out another laugh, but Dean sees something flash for a split second behind his eyes, something like panic."As delightful as your pent-up sexual rage is, and believe me, it is just so precious, I'm afraid you're really not my type."

The woman spits in Crowley's face, twists the knife, and grins when his spine curves back sharply and he hisses, scrunching up his eyes.

"A little to the left," he grits out, baring his teeth.

"Alright, alright," Jeff stapes up, lays a hand on the woman's arm. "Kate, we're not getting anywhere like this; let's let Dean take over. He knows what he's doing."

Dean's face doesn't betray anything as he nods, dropping his bag to the floor and unzipping it to reveal the clutter of knives, bottles, pliers and other torture devices he's brought. The woman- Kate, apparently- tugs her knife free with a squelch, wiping it off on her boot, and stands. Jeff nods at Dean."You good?"

"Yeah, 'course," Dean says gruffly, already digging through the bag and setting things out. "We know who he is, now we just gotta find out who's been hiding him."

"Right." Jeff thumps Dean on the shoulder companionably. "We'll leave you to it. C'mon guys, let's take a break, let Winchester get comfortable." The other two hunters follow Jeff up the stairs, Kate shooting a glare back at Crowley and an appraising look at Dean before shutting the basement door.

"Charming bunch," Crowley says, pausing to spit out a tooth. "Hospitable."

"What the hell're you doing here, man?" Dean demands, voice low in case anyone is listening at the door. "How'd you end up in a freaking house full of hunters?"

"You mean this isn't a spa?" The ex-demon asks, feigning surprise. "It's very relaxing."

"Not the time, Crowley," Dean warns. He looks the kneeling man up and down. "You look like shit."

Crowley snorts. "Please. I've been enduring this lot's little love-taps for a while now; this is nothing compared to a couple centuries in hell."

He says it flippantly, and Dean knows it's true, but he also knows that Crowley as an almost-human can't take anywhere near as much of a beating as full-fledged demon Crowley could. Already, in the back of his mind, a nasty little idea is forming. It would be all too easy, down here in the dark, to kill Crowley once and for all. He's vulnerable like this, weak- it would only take a quick jab from Ruby's knife, and the problem with his brother would be over. _Just tell Sam you didn't see him, let him think Crowley ran off on his own, like demons do_. "How'd they get you?"

Crowley shifts his weight, and Dean hears the click-grind of broken bones. "First tell me how Sam's doing. How long've I been gone?"

Dean pauses, guilt already pulling at him. "He's fine," he bites out. "And you've been gone about two weeks."

"Bugger." Crowley makes a pained face (or rather a slightly _more_ pained face) and coughs. "Guess I missed his birthday, then."

Dean frowns at him. "Yeah." Sam's birthday was last week; they had pancakes, Sam opened presents and blew out his candles and pretended not to be worried and distracted. "What exactly were you doing here?"

"To be fair, I wasn't _here_ when they caught me; I was a few miles outside of town."

"Doing. What?" Dean presses, undeterred.

Crowley sighs. "I used to have a house there. I was picking something up from it, didn't realize I'd been spotted by a local demon. Bastard came after me when I got to the house, I managed to kill him, but the Justice League up there had been tracking _him_ , as it turns out. One warded bag over my head later, I'm waking up here getting holy watered in the face."

"Again," Dean growls, "What were you after?"

"It's not important," Crowley responds evasively.

"Like that's convincing," the hunter snorts. "What was it, something to get your demon moo back? Some fancy weapon?"

Crowley opens his mouth, but a creak in the floorboards above their heads makes him stop, both of them glancing up and listening intently for footsteps or voices.

"Quick, make some noise," Dean hisses. "They're gonna get suspicious if the guy I'm supposed to be torturing doesn't sound tortured."

The demon raises a brow, looking unimpressed, and Dean huffs impatiently and jabs a finger into the open wound on Crowley's leg. He cries out, startled, and tries to squirm away. Dean grabs him by the back of the neck, holding him in place as he pushes further. Crowley grits his teeth, groans in pain as loudly as possible- which goes against every instinct he's gained in hell. The ceiling creaks again as the footsteps recede, and Dean sits back. Crowley glares at him, shoulders heaving.

"Bit rude."

Dean wipes his finger clean, nose wrinkled in disgust. "Yeah, well, next time I'll use the screwdriver, so try to be a little more cooperative. Now," he settles onto his haunches, runs his fingers over the handle of a bone saw. "Tell me what you were after."

"Nothing dangerous, alright? I promise." Crowley winces and shifts, trying to relieve some pressure on his strained limbs.

"Oh, you promise, that's great, perfect," Dean mocks, rolling his eyes. He stands, pacing. "Cuz you've never lied before."

"Listen-" Crowley's next excuse is cut short by a sharp kick to the ribs, sending him slumping to the floor on his side as he coughs up a mouthful of blood. "Bollocks."

"I swear to god, Crowley, if you don't cut the crap right now, you better say goodbye to your fingers." He grabs a pair of hedge clippers, dangling them from one hand and feeling his own blood pounding against his temples.

Crowley laughs. "Your brother won't appreciate that; he's quite fond of my finge-" Again, he's cut off by a kick, this time to the gut, and he curls in on himself, wheezing. Dean steps forward, places a boot against the captive man's throat and presses down.

"One more time, Crowley."


	3. It's Not the Long Walk Home That Will Change This Heart

  
The former king of hell chokes, spits a clot of blood onto the leather of the hunter's shoe, and gasps out, "A book."

  
Dean lifts his boot slightly, allowing Crowley more air. "A book?"

  
"A book, I was getting an old book of lore."

  
Dean frowns. "What the hell for?"

  
Crowley licks away some of the blood that stains his beard. "Thought it'd be useful. Look, I can explain later," he rasps, "Just-"

  
Dean actually laughs at that, shakes his head, the familiar red haze creeping in around his vision as he settles into the power he holds over another life, the give and take of pain and relief. "You think there's gonna be a later? You think I'm gonna let you walk outta here? Hell, even if I wanted to, how would I get you past them?" He crouches again, looks Crowley in the eye. "Remember what I said on our little adventure with Cain? I promised I was gonna kill you, and you know what? I actually keep my promises."

  
"You need me," Crowley protests weakly, and Dean smirks.

  
"Not like this we don't. Look at you– you weren't even strong enough to fight off a bunch of half-assed hunters. You can't snap away, you can't be exorcized– if I got rid of the trap I bet you wouldn't even heal. You're almost human." He tilts his head, considering and condescending. "Almost."

  
"Why bother, then?" Crowley asks, voice dull and tired. "If I'm so useless and weak, what threat could I possibly pose?"  
"You're always a threat," Dean snaps. "You might have Sam head-over-heels for your repentant sinner act but you and I both know you're gonna turn on him- on all of us- the second you get the chance. Because you're a _coward_."

  
Crowley looks up at him, blinking bloody and wounded like the words mean something. He swallows, drops his gaze, nods. "Make it quick?"

  
Dean hesitates. A simple stab to the heart or throat would no doubt do the trick, but then he'd have to explain to Jeff and his buddies why their demonic guinea pig suddenly died. If he makes it slow, he can pass it off on blood-loss. He drops the clippers, picks up the knife and turns it in his hands slowly. "Any last words?"

  
Crowley takes a breath, lets it out. "Tell Sam I said 'thank you'. For, uh. For trying."

  
Dean doesn't exactly flinch, but his eyes narrow and his grip tightens on the handle of the blade as he sees, suddenly, Crowley's face when Cain talked about forgiveness. That split second of raw, painful longing before his expression sank back to sarcastic neutrality, and Dean knows that look, that armor of indifference. _Shit_.

  
He draws his arm back a little, steels himself.

  
"Wait," Crowley coughs, chains clinking. "I- not 'thank you'. Tell him– tell Sam that I–" He pauses, closes his good eye, and Dean thinks _No. No way. No fucking way is he about to say what I think he's about to say_. He opens his eye and starts again. "Tell him that I attacked you. Tell him I turned on you and I was gonna sell you out and uh, and I tried to kill you."

  
Dean blinks. "What?"

  
"You heard me," Crowley coughs again. "Tell him it was self-defense. If he finds out I died because of the whole," he shrugs, the only gesture he can manage, "The whole 'humanization' thing, he'll blame himself. I'd rather he just be angry at me; it won't matter to me anyway." He thinks a moment. "Better yet, just tell him Abaddon killed me. Then he'll be angry at her."

  
Dean exhales loudly, shaking his head. "Jesus, for a second I thought you were gonna tell me you're in love with him." He glances up to see Crowley looking stricken, pale.

  
"He can't know about that," he says earnestly. "Dean– please. He can't ever find out." He looks fucking _gutted_ , gaze lowered, hands curled behind his back. "Let him think it didn't mean anything. It'll be– easier."

  
Dean is silent, watching the man in front of him plead– not for his life, but for his secret: that deep-down timebomb of emotion that has all that potential to utterly destroy everything Crowley's built himself into. Sam did that. Sam took the king of hell and broke him down better than anything a seasoned torturer could come up with.

  
"I won't tell him," Dean hears himself promise.

  
Crowley meets his eyes, briefly, nods. "Go on, then."

  
The hunter swallows, fixes his grip on the knife, and swings. 

 


	4. But the Welcome I Recieve With the Restart

(Sorry not sorry about the cliffhanger on the last chapter, guys! Enjoy this nice long new chapter as a sort-of apology!)

 

~

 

 

  
The tip of the blade buries itself in the floor, splitting the line of paint that forms the trap's outer ring. Crowley blinks slowly.  
"I know your aim's not normally that lousy," he says. "So…"

  
"Yeah, yeah, let's not make a big deal of it," Dean answers shortly. He steps behind the still-bound man and begins working at the shackles. "If I get you outta these things, can you zap us both outside?"

  
"I certainly hope so," the demon croaks.

  
"Yeah, that's really reassuring," Dean grumbles a moment before the chains click open.

  
Crowley immediately snaps his fingers, and suddenly Dean is stumbling back into the hood of his car outside. He glances around to see Crowley standing unsteadily a few feet away. "Hey, asshole, you forgot my bag."

  
"You're welcome to go back in after it," Crowley offers in a tetchy voice.

  
Dean sighs; at least he's still holding Ruby's knife. He opens up the door to the Impala. "Alright, get your ass in the back."

  
Crowley raises a bloody brow. "Believe it or not, I'm not too keen on spending a few hours locked in a steel trap on wheels with the guy that just broke three of my ribs." He wipes a smear of red from his chin, raises a hand and adds, "I'll see you back at the burrow," before snapping away.

  
Dean curses and climbs into the car before Jeff and his pals can come after him.

  
~

  
Crowley lands heavily in front of the bunker's door, immediately losing his balance and slumping against the wall. He fumbles with one hand (thankfully with fingers still attached, though missing most of his nails) and finds the doorbell, pressing and hearing the distant buzz from deep within the building.

  
Moments later, Sam emerges, blinking groggily (no surprise– it's nearly 3 in the morning) and wearing a t-shirt and loose pants and the sight of him makes something ache in Crowley's chest that has nothing to do with his broken ribs. When Sam catches sight of the dark form huddled next to the doorway, his eyes go wide and he drops to one knee, reaching. "Crowley?!"

  
"H'lo, Moose," the demon manages, feeling Sam's big hands run up and down his body carefully, mapping out the shape of his pain.

  
"What the hell happened?" Sam demands.

  
Crowley's too tired, cold and hurt to come up with a decent explanation at the moment. "Tell you in a bit. Can we go inside now?"

  
"Yeah, of– is there something else out here?" The hunter asks warily, looking up sharply and drawing Crowley towards him protectively.

  
"No, it's fine," Crowley insists, climbing shakily to his feet. They step inside, closing the door, and head down toward the living room. Crowley tries not to lean on Sam, but the human isn't having any of it, wrapping a muscular arm around him and supporting his weight as they walk.

  
Sam bustles him into the largest bathroom, helping him sit on the closed toilet and start to undress. Crowley carefully removes his jacket and sets it aside, then undoes his tie while Sam gets the medical kit.

  
"Are you healing at all?"

  
Crowley squints doubtfully at one hand (the one that the lovely Kate hammered a few silver nails through last week), concentrates, and sees one of the ragged wounds shrink, scab and close with agonizing slowness. "Sort of," he says, working on his ruined eye next.

  
He goes to poke at the other, still-open tears in his flesh, but Sam is there before he can, gently holding his wrist and wrapping his hand in ointment and gauze. "What hurts the worst?"

  
Crowley snorts. "Everything."

  
Sam's face undergoes a sort of rotation between exasperated and concerned. "Okay, well, anything especially life-threatening?"

  
The injured man makes a noncommittal sound, shrugs. "Nothing to write hell about." He makes a strained effort, and the internal bleeding that threatened to fill his lungs slows to a trickle. "Should be better in the morning; maybe fully healed in a few days." Damn, but he misses being able to just wave away damage.

  
Sam still looks doubtful, but he nods and stands back, holding out a hand. "You should get cleaned up, at the very least."

  
"Are you implying that I smell bad?" The ex-king asks loftily, trying to lighten the mood. He knows full well that he reeks; he's been locked in a dungeon and chained up, left to stew in his own sweat and blood and various fluids for two weeks.

  
"Terrible," Sam teases, helping him up. "Like you crawled through a sewer."

  
"That's just my new cologne; Eau de Captivity," he jokes.

  
Sam looks pained again, squeezing the demon closer as they hobble toward the tub. The hunter gets a hot bath running while Crowley strips the rest of his clothes, wincing as he peels away fabric glued to his skin by crusted blood. He's a little amazed by how uncaring he is toward his own nudity in front of Sam; he's never been entirely comfortable showing himself to people even before the cleansing messed up his body. He turns to see Sam staring mournfully at the jagged fracture of slashes that cover his back. Before he can make a comment or ask any questions, Crowley steps around him and glances down at the tub, coughing out a laugh when he sees that the water holds a thick layer of lavender-scented bubbles. "Really?"

  
Sam shrugs, not remotely ashamed. "It'll help you relax. It's soothing."

  
"I'm not a girl on her period, Moose," the demon warns.

  
"Neither am I, and I use it sometimes when I get bashed up on a hunt," Sam replies calmly.

Crowley rolls his eyes but allows the hunter to help him into the big porcelain basin, lowering himself with shaky legs into the steaming water. He grunts when his bruised tailbone bumps the bottom, then groans as the heat and suds ease his screaming muscles, wash away the outer layer of grime. Sam settles onto his knees on the floor, dipping a washcloth in and using it to dab delicately at Crowley's battered face. The dark-haired man is quiet and still for a few minutes, soaking, before cracking open one eye to say, with a little smirk to his voice, "Wonder if this tub is big enough for two?"

  
Sam laughs, a little unsteadily, and leans in to apply a warm kiss to the demon's damp cheek. "I think that would probably be a pretty bad idea right now, but let's store that thought for later."

  
Crowley grumbles halfheartedly, then glares when the human tips his head back and pours water through his hair, one big hand over his eyes to keep them from getting soapy. A little of his old defensiveness, independence molded into him by centuries of mistrust, flares up and he growls, "I can wash my own damn hair, Moose."

  
Sam gives him a look. "I know you can. I'm helping you because I want to, okay?"

  
That gets another annoyed grumble, but no further protest. About ten minutes later Sam reaches down and tugs the plug out of the drain, allowing the now-murky water to seep away. He stands and turns on the shower, letting Crowley rinse off the last of the blood and dirt before stepping out and into the offered towel. When Sam makes a move to help him dry off, the ex-king flinches away, wrapping the towel around himself and avoiding the taller man's gaze. Sam backs off after that, keeping his distance even when he brings over a change of clothes (a loose Stanford t-shirt and pajama pants). He stands against a wall as Crowley slowly gets redressed, hands him bandages to cover the worst of the wounds. He disappears again, this time returning with crackers, a glass of milk and some Tylenol. Crowley hesitates to take the pills (they're both aware of his tendency to endure pain rather than address it– a sort of habit of self-flagellation that Sam has been trying to help him through) but he swallows them when he sees the look on the hunter's face. He finishes the milk and eats two crackers before standing and heaving a sigh.

  
"Tired," he admits.

  
Sam nods. "You wanna sleep in your room or mine?"

  
Crowley glances toward the hallway, picturing his own room: the single bed, undecorated walls, the small television in one corner. "Yours. If it's not– if you don't mind."

  
"No problem," Sam walks with him to the room with stacks of books next to the bed, a laptop on the desk, folded clothes in the dresser and cutouts of newspapers pinned to a cork board on the wall.

  
Crowley settles onto the bed, gingerly crawling toward the pillows and trying not to jar his injuries. They're both silent as he kicks his way under the blankets, and once he's done Sam asks, leaning against the doorway, "You want me to leave you alone for a while?"

  
Crowley hesitates, shakes his head. Sam takes a step toward him, bare feet on warm carpet. "Is it okay if I hold you until you fall asleep?" Wording it as a request on his end, because he knows, he _knows_ Crowley won't ask for it, won't let himself. Crowley nods, hands balled around the edges of the blanket, and Sam is immediately climbing onto the mattress, lifting the blankets and wrapping himself, so carefully, around the demon. He buries his nose in Crowley's hair, breathes deep and lets it out like pain escaping. "God, I was so fucking scared. You didn't answer your phone and I knew you wouldn't just leave–"

  
"I didn't mean to be gone so long," Crowley says miserably, face tucked into Sam's chest. "And I– my phone got taken, I couldn't get word to you."

  
Sam nods, running a hand soothingly up and down his back, and pauses before asking quietly, "Crowley… what happened? Who did this to you?"

  
Crowley takes a breath, opens his mouth to speak.

 


	5. No Alarms

By the time Dean gets back to the bunker, he is ready to kill Crowley all over again. He'd barely been on the road for five minutes before Jeff's crew was after him, and he ended up adding a full two hours to his trip just trying to shake them. Now his baby's got three extra air holes in her trunk thanks to trigger-happy Kate, and Dean is tired, hungry, down a bag of tools, and ready to kick some teleporting demon ass.

  
He goes stomping through the hals of the hideout, glaring into every room until he finds Cas fumbling with the coffeemaker in the kitchen.

  
"Hey," he says gruffly, expression softening despite himself at the sight of the angel concentrating on the act of making coffee like he's opening the Ark of the Covenant. He shakes off the fond look, glancing around. "That dickbag back yet?"

  
"If you mean Crowley, then yes," Cas replies, carefully spooning grounds into the machine (the fancy St Helena stuff that Crowley keeps bringing in because he's got them all kind of addicted to it but dammit that stuff's good). "He is with Sam."

  
Dean makes a noise through gritted teeth and turns toward the hall. Cas adds, "A warning, Dean– Sam is feeling somewhat… protective."

  
"Protective?" Dean all but snarls.

  
The angel nods. "When I stopped in earlier, he almost shot me."

  
"What the hell?!"

  
"Not intentionally," Cas amends. "He thought I was someone else, that I was trying to, uh, get to Crowley. Apparently Crowley has been extensively tortured during his absence."

  
"Fuck's sake," Dean growls, turning and storming toward Sam's room. He knocks on the door first, to avoid getting shot, and adds, "Sam, it's me. Don't shoot at me, I swear to god I am not in the mood." He yanks the door open before his brother can reply, stopping short when he sees them.

  
Sam is laid out on the bed, under the covers, propped up against the headboard and reading something on his tablet. Crowley is curled up next to him, bundled in the blankets and resting his head on Sam's chest, the hunter's arm around him like a shield. The demon's eyes are closed, smudged with bruises and shadow and making him look weary beyond words. All the irritation, the anger and urge to beat Crowley bloody anew drains away very suddenly, and Dean is left feeling tired himself.

"So uh…" He shifts uneasily, wondering how much Crowley has told Sam about his captivity. "Looks like he made it back from wherever he was. Seems fine."

Sam levels a glare at him, and Dean has to actively keep himself from shrinking away. _Shit_.

"He's absolutely not 'fine', Dean," the younger Winchester hisses. "Do you know where he's been the last two weeks?"

"Um. No?" Dean really hopes Sam hasn't figured out how to tell when he's lying. Goddammit he wishes he'd gotten back before Crowley, so he'd have had time to explain and defend himself to Sam before the demon filled his head with a slanted sob-story that no doubt paints Dean as the evil torturer. Crowley probably even wrote out the bit where Dean _helped him escape_ , thank you very much. That lying, manipulative, ungrateful little-

"Abaddon had him," Sam says, speaking softly but practically simmering with rage. "She and her crew were torturing him the whole time; he couldn't get any word to us. He couldn't heal. He's too human." He runs a hand down Crowley's spine and Dean realizes that the humanized demon is actually shaking minutely in his sleep.

"How, uh," Dean clears his throat, voice a little quieter. "How'd he escape?" He asks it warily, waiting for the fallout, because there has to be a fallout. There's no way Crowley wouldn't spin this to his advantage. 

Sam shakes his head. "He said something about a hound. I think one of his old hellhounds must have found him and helped him get away." He glances up at the ceiling, considering. "He was pretty out of it, but if he can still control hellhounds, that could be super helpful."

"Yeah," Dean agrees weakly. "And that was– it?"

"As far as I know…" Sam says slowly, frowning quizzically. Crowley makes a faint noise, twitching, and the hunter shushes him, hand still moving in steady sweeps up and down his back until the man settles. "So how was your thing? Jeff's new monster?"

"Oh, uh-" Dean laughs a little, hoping it doesn't sound forced. "Nah, the idiot just hadn't seen a rugaru before."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I can't believe that guy's survived this long."

"Yeah, go figure." Dean shrugs. "Dumb luck, I guess, like Garth." He backs out of the room, stops, and says, awkwardly, "Look, you and him-" He gestures toward the sleeping figure in the bed, and Sam narrows his eyes.

"Dean, I'm really not in the mood to hear you rant about my choices."

"No, no, I–" He takes a breath, gets the words out quickly. "You really- you guys are- you really like him. I mean, you…" 

"Yeah," Sam allows, clearly wondering where this is going. "I do."

Dean nods. "Have you told him?"

Sam looks down at the injured demon wrapped around him. "No. I think it would freak him out a little if I told him. He's not really… good with feelings yet. Not that that's anything new."

Dean chuckles a little, pauses, opens his mouth to tell Sam and then stops again when he recalls Crowley's desperate, fearful plea that his secret be kept. Instead, he says, "You should tell him. Might as well, right? If he freaks out, talk him through it."

Sam looks at him weirdly, then smiles slightly. "That solo trip turned you into some kinda love-guru, huh?"

Dean laughs again. "Yeah, you know me; I'm one awkward naked hug away from being Cupid."

"Well, go practice your naked hugging on Cas," Sam says. "I'm sure he'd appreciate it more, and we kinda need it quiet in here."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean waves away the comment and ducks out, leaving them alone.

 


End file.
